Cempa wriggled his toes and watched his breath mist. He’d been up since six. It was now eight and he still didn’t feel human.

Far too noisy for the morning.

Two days ago, Elewýs had sighted a massive wild boar and she’d been tracking it ever since. The very idea of wild pork chops had left Cempa salivating for almost forty-eight hours straight, hence the oversized cheese and pickle sandwich he was cramming into his mouth as a temporary measure as he waited for everyone to organise themselves in Hramsacrop manor’s courtyard.

Cempa leaned against the manor wall, facing a small, paved enclosure, about twenty by twenty five yards and attached to the back of the main building. On the left side were the stables with enough space for five horses. One stall was in use. A feed loft and simple living quarters occupied the floor above, where Hoff and Mésia slept.

On the other side was the milking parlour and pantry, above which lay the cheese room. The pantry led directly to the kitchen block through an internal door, a small squat building attached to the side of the manor, with the cellar below and the cooks quarters above it.

Opposite the back of the manor lay the small combined guardhouse and armoury connected to the stable’s side in an L-shape. To complete the square was a miniature gatehouse in the right hand corner, connecting the guardhouse to the side of the milking parlour.

Hoff leaned against the stable door, brushing Anggret, while Mésia handed out mint tea and pies from the pantry door.

Cempa frowned.

Why do humans use two appendages for walking? If I had hands for feet, I could hold a sandwich, a pie, and tea all at the same time while standing on one foot, rather than having to decide between sandwich and pie, or one food and tea.

Cempa stared at his sandwich and sniffed. I will have to rush this glorious meal if I want everything.

Chewing with reckless abandon, Cempa approached Mésia.

“Good morning,” she said.

“‘Mor’in’ ‘cia.” All things considered, it was a heroic dictation achievement.

“Tea?”

Cempa nodded.

“Honey?”

He nodded a second time. The final chunk of sandwich disappeared between his pickled lips.

Mésia cocked her head to one side, “Pie?”

“Mmm mmmmmm.” Cempa took the proffered provisions, “Mmmmmm.”

“You’re welcome.”

Cempa returned to his perch by the back door. The scene had changed. Leth was out, standing by the manor back door, clasping a cup of tea in both hands and stamping his feet. Milde and Clæfre, back in full hauberks and gambesons with crossbows on their backs and bolts at their belts, spoke in hushed voices near the guardhouse.

“Do you think their gear will help?” said Leth.

“I’m going for the don’t be hit approach,” said Cempa. “I’m not sure if mail will stop an angry boar, especially one that might be a Gréatian. I’d rather not find out the pointy way.”

“It’s a lot of walking in heavy armour, but better exhausted than dead I suppose,” said Leth.

“They spar in the stuff every morning, for a whole hour. I doubt they’ll notice a day’s walking. What about your father?”

“He’s going with your theory, he’ll be atop Anggret though.”

“I watched him sharpen his boar spear all of yesterday evening while he outlined today’s plan.”

“I think he misses the thrill of the road,” said Leth. “He’s spent so much time and money trying to get his home back, now he has it, he doesn’t know what to do.”

“Running the estate is full time though,” said Cempa. “He certainly keeps me busy with all his plans for this place.”

“That’s true. Are you enjoying your new life?”

“I’m still ordering people about. The tasks are different, but it’s much the same as before, except there’s less chance of an early grave and better food. I even get to punch Weard from time to time.”

“Sounds like paradise.”

“You have no idea. How are your studies?”

“I enjoy having all my books in one place, I’ve even managed to add a few more, but my practice is very theoretical at the moment.”

“Is everything you do still ending in an explosion?”

Letholdus frowned, “Not explosions exactly, but I have to be careful. The quantity of magic around keeps increasing. It’s difficult to predict what might happen each time I try to create a spell. Magic still follows the rules of the symbols I use, but there is a lot of interference.”

“Interference?”

“Normally, when I channel the magic around me through the shape I want, it creates an area free, or at least much reduced, of magic to cast the spell within. Now though, it’s like throwing a bucket of water into a bath, not much happens, or fat on the fire, and the spell is bigger than it should be.

“Why don’t you use all the power then?”

“Because I would like to live another day.”

“It’s that bad?”

“Only because I don’t know how to construct a spell that can deal with the situation. The problem has nearly always been not enough magic, so all the scholarship focuses on collecting power, not keeping it away.

“The answer will be there somewhere or perhaps, given enough time, I will cobble together a solution of my own. Maybe I will even find a way to tame the Cwylla.”

“Is that why you’re not coming today?”

“It’s more that I don’t see the point in senselessly risking my life for a sausage.”

“There is no greater calling to man than that of a sausage.”

“Don’t let Milde hear you say that.”

Cempa harrumphed and sprayed pie over the steps, forcing Leth to jump backwards to avoid a severe crumbing.

“Charming as always,” said Leth.

Cempa tried his best to look sheepish.

“Yes, you are the picture of abject humility. There’s Weard. Only my father left now.” A loud whiny echoed around the courtyard. “Looks like Anggret is playing up. I’d better go check on her.”

Cempa nodded. He watched Leth shuffle towards the stalls, still snuggling his mug. He heard horses galloping in the distance, they were closing.

“Milde!”

“What is it Cempa?”

“Take a peek around the gatehouse. I think we have visitors.”

“Aye.”

At first, Cempa could hear the clink of her armour as she walked, but before she even reached the gate, the sound of hooves had suffocated all other noises. There were a lot of riders and they were in a terrible hurry. Everyone had stopped what they were doing to peer at the gate.

The first rider shot through. He had a longsword in his hand and wore leather armour, sewn with small, rust speckled disks from head to toe. Even slowing his hectic charge down as fast as he could, he would reach Cempa in a couple seconds. Three other riders, in similar gear, followed him at a more sedate pace. They yelled. More shouted from beyond the gate.

Cempa decided that it didn’t matter if they were friendly or not, they were disturbing his breakfast. He needed a way of disarming the lunatic skidding towards him as the horse struggled for a grip on the smooth paving stones, but he only had a sæx and a beating stick tucked into his belt.

The closest thing within reach was a wooden muck bucket. Cempa dropped his food. It wasn’t until the bucket was horizontal and the contents slopped over his arm did Cempa realize the bucket was still full. Disgust was followed by glee as Cempa hurled it at the rider. Both bucket and horse shit slammed into the rider’s chest.

The horse skittered sideways and the rider lost his balance. He fell. His head bounced on the stone. It didn’t sound healthy. The rider twitched.

One down, Cempa looked about, nineteen to go. Not my best morning.

Three of them had bows, six had torches and sæxs, and the remaining ten had longswords like the first. They’d crammed themselves into the yard leaving little space to manoeuvre, removing their mounted advantage.

Idiots.

The riders were surrounded, but had separated the troop, forcing their backs to the courtyard walls.

The riders’ original plan must have been to torch the manor, then pick off everyone as they ran out.

Two of the enemy bowmen screamed. One scrabbled at the bolt in his neck, and the other fell from his horse, staring at his perforated chest. Cempa grinned, smart women, going for the bowmen first. The third saw what was happening and jumped off his horse, putting the horse between himself and the two sisters. The other riders followed his lead.

Cempa scarpered up the back steps to get a better view. Mésia had disappeared and the pantry door was closed. Hoff had shut himself in a stable stall. Three men advanced on him, but they couldn’t get past the split door and pitchfork the old man was jabbing at their eyes.

Having used their escape time to shoot at the enemy, Milde and Clæfre were now surrounded by seven, furious men. The sisters were up against the guardhouse door but couldn’t get in without being rushed. Milde had her sæx out and Clæfre stood behind her sister, pointing her reloaded crossbow at the well equipped raiders. The moment she fired, they’d be charged, but none of the men were keen to make the first move.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

No sign of Weard. Again.

Caught halfway between the back door and the stable, Leth was in trouble. Four men moved in on him. Leth didn’t even have a knife and there was nothing nearby that he could grab. He looked scared, but before Cempa could help him, he would have to take down the three men preparing to rush him. It wasn’t good odds. There were more of them, they were better armoured, and had much longer reach than his stout stick and sæx.

Dead men can’t ask questions. Best get this over with.

Cempa roared and charged down the steps, the dismounted riders faltered for a moment, but not as long as he’d hoped. At the last second, Cempa changed direction, stepping away from the leftmost man, his original target, and under the guard of the man on the right. The centre attacker had to stop his swing short to prevent himself from skewering his tackled companion.

He needn’t have bothered as Cempa did it for him, stabbing the man in the heart. The man went rigid. Unable to halt his own momentum, Cempa’s sæx was pulled from his hand. Leaving him with a stick against two longswords.

The men edged towards him, feet apart and swords before them.

I’ve no chance of surprising them again.

Cempa retreated back up the steps. Milde and Clæfre were still in a stand off but the raiders had moved closer.

The stand-off won’t last much longer. The moment the last bowman returns, the sisters will die.

A great swirl of air and dust whipped about Leth. He looked a little unsteady, as he always did when he attempted a spell.

“Stay back,” Leth shouted.

As I’ve been explained to multiple times, casting magic without some sort of aid is a long, tricky process and not suitable for combat. A little air is likely the best Leth can manage.

The men approaching Leth didn’t know that though and shuffled back.

Cempa’s focus returned to his own problems.

I could slip through the open manor door behind me, bar it, grab an heirloom off the wall, sneak round to the pantry door and charge back into the fray, but the fight will be over by then.

Another scream and an angry shout echoed off the walls.

I can’t afford to look.

The raiders in front of Cempa knew they had him.

If I had my mail and cuirass on, I would charge them again, I might have received a few broken ribs and probably a few bad cuts, but I could win. Right now my choices are run in and die, or stand on the steps, flail my stick about, then die.

Or get lucky.

An arrow flew past his face. Cempa leapt from the steps and tried to whack the centre man, but was brought up short by the sword thrust at his face.

Cempa growled. He heard another scream and thud. A bright, metallic flash lit up his peripheral vision.

The left raider stumbled and dropped his sword.

Cempa surged forward. He battered the centre man’s sword away with the stick in his left hand and punched the man in the face with his right. The raider stumbled. A second flash revealed a boar spear. The centre raider crumpled, clutching his side.

“Good morning, Sir,” said Cempa.

“Take their weapons, help Letholdus, then the sisters. I’ll finish these two off then take out the last bowman.”

Cempa nodded and picked up two of the longswords. An arrow whooshed past him. Sir Wulfslæd grunted. He was sprawled on the steps. An arrow had gone right through his shin. Blood trickled down his forehead. Cempa moved to help him.

“Cempa!”

He paused.

Sir Wulfslæd sat up, “Follow your orders.”

Cempa ran towards the growing dust devil surrounding Leth.

Sir Wulfslæd is correct, as long as the arrow hasn’t nicked an artery, and no one else attacks him, he’ll survive.

The four men, closing in on Leth again, never saw Cempa coming. Swinging both swords at once, Cempa decapitated one with his left and lost his right sword in the ribs of the second. He didn’t have time to remove it if he was to continue his surprise attack.

The third man turned in time to watch Cempa’s left sword entering his throat. Cempa let that one go too and tackled the fourth man, pulling him to the ground. He grabbed the stunned raider’s head and slammed it into the paving stones.

Ah, I am such a hypocrite. All those hours of yelling at recruits not to drop their weapon.

Blood sprayed across the sandstone as the man’s nose shattered. Cempa gripped the man’s battered skull with both hands and gave it a savage twist. The raider’s neck snapped with an unpleasant pop.

Cempa stood up and panted. Leth was white and the air about him was dead still. Cempa retrieved the swords and handed one to Leth.

“My father?”

“On the steps. No time to dawdle, we have to save Milde and Clæfre.”

“Why is he kneeling?”

“Arrow.”

Leth was shaking, “I need to help him.”

“Those were not his orders. Do you want Milde and Clæfre to die?”

“No.”

“Then let’s go.”

Leth nodded.

“Good lad,” said Cempa. They pushed through the puffing horses.

Cempa looked back, “Bugger.”

The three men who’d been trying to kill Hoff had given up and were going for Sir Wulfslæd.

“Cempa, please. Give me the beating stick.”

Oh boy, Leth is bringing out the magic. No way I’m going to stop him from helping his father though. I’ll deal with the rest himself.

Cempa handed Leth the chipped chunk of wood. Leth pricked his index finger on the tip of his longsword and scrawled a series of symbols onto the wood in his own blood. The symbols were crude compared to the ones on his staff, but they glowed nonetheless.

Cempa and Leth faced the manor at a slight angle. Four horses blocked their way, but they could still see Sir Wulfslæd, leaning on his spear and hobbling up the steps. The feet of the approaching men were visible beneath the horses. The moment Sir Wulfslæd stepped into the shelter of the doorway, Leth unleashed his magic.

The young man grimaced as the stick in his hand ignited, burning his flesh, but he didn’t let go. The stones at his feet disintegrated and shot towards the three men in a great spray of dust.

Cempa had thought the horses would get in the way, but he was wrong. The dust flayed the horses, reducing them to a pile of mush in under a second. The wave of grit turned red. Cempa never saw what happened to the three men.

The bloody storm didn’t stop there though, it shot into the corner of the manor and was funnelled upwards by the more sturdy stone. The entire courtyard was showered with blood, bone and mortar.

There was a huge crash as the pantry and manor wall collapsed. After the dust settled, Cempa could see through the rubble to the kitchen. Leth ran towards his father. Cempa couldn’t hear any more fighting.

He barged through the remaining horses to where Milde and Clæfre had been. Two of the raiders were dead, their throats slit. The rest were on their knees. Milde and Clæfre were pointing their crossbows at them, while Weard, walked between them, kicking their weapons away.

“What the bloody hell was that?” said Milde.

“Thank the Gods you’re all unhurt,” said Cempa.

“Didn’t know you were the religious type.” Clæfre said.

Cempa clutched his stomach and groaned.

“You alright Cempa?” said Weard.

“Just a stitch.”

“You shouldn’t eat so much before exercise, Cempa,” said Milde.

“And what are you covered in?” said Clæfre. “It reeks.”

“Never mind that,” said Cempa. “To answer your earlier question, that was Leth.”

“What happened?” said Weard.

Cempa waved his hand about, “Take a look around.”

“I thought the dust was a bit sticky,” said Milde.

“What are you?” said one of the captives. “There were twenty of us and eight of you, two of whom ran inside. Now there are five of us.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t meet the cook,” said Milde. “He’s very handy with those knives of his.”

The blood drained from the captives’ faces. Sir Wulfslæd limped over, leaning on Leth.

“Still standing, Sir?” said Weard.

“Always,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “It seems that’s the lot of you. Péton already went with Tadhgán to check the front.” He examined the troop, “Are any of you hurt? Péton will be here in a moment”

“Cempa has a stitch,” said Milde. The corner of Sir Wulfslæd’s face twitched into a small smile before returning to his bloodied, grime soaked grimace.

Cempa frowned, “Not my fault, these guys started it.”

“Yes, I suppose they did and now my prized home is sporting a new window.”

“I’m sorry father, I-”

Sir Wulfslæd waved his free hand, “It’s fine, I’m just glad you’re not hurt.” Sir Wulfslæd glared at the raiders, “Would you like to explain yourselves and live, or sit there and die? I don’t particularly care. I am yet to kill anyone today so I am not a happy man. Executing all of you would solve both of those problems.”

“Is now the time, Sir?” said Cempa. “Shouldn’t we get the arrow out of your leg.”

“No, that can wait. I’ll pass out when that happens. I want to sort this now.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“So, who ordered this attack?”

“No one, Sir,” said the captive. “We thought we could get some easy money.”

“So you brought torches to smoke us all out, kill us, and let your riches burn? No, I don’t think so. Cempa, why don’t you hit him and see if he remembers.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Cempa kicked the man in the head. He collapsed.

“Not that hard, I doubt he’ll even know his own name when he wakes up after that.”

“Sorry, Sir.”

“Never mind. Anyone else have a story to tell?”

None of them said a word.

“So you were paid to keep silent and threatened with death. Hit another one, Cempa.”

A second captive was laid out in one.

“You’re not very good at this are you?”

“No Sir, I don’t like it when they get back up.”

“Gentleman, I won’t ask again. Who hired you?”

Still silence. Sir Wulfslæd waved at Cempa.

Cempa approached the third man. His kick was halfway towards the man’s face when the captive shouted.

“Stop! I’ll tell you, it’s not like I can’t just disappear.”

“That’s right,” said Cempa, grinning. He reached forward and hauled the man to his feet with one arm.

“Please, I don’t want to be kicked. I’ll tell you, that creepy man can rot in the midden for all I care.”

Cempa let him go. The man dropped to his knees.

“Go on,” said Sir Wulfslæd. He was pale and his face was clammy with sweat and blood.

The interrogation can’t continue much longer.

The captive spoke faster, “He didn’t give his name. He was tall, thin, and looked very sickly. We were given a Thrymas each and promised two more when we returned and whatever we wanted from your manor. We were told to kill all of you, especially the Eten. I don’t know who he meant by that, but I imagine that’s you.” He pointed at Cempa.

“On that account, you are wrong,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “I doubt you’d have ever found her.”

“I’m flattered,” said Milde. “Three gold coins for a tussle with me?”

“Did he say anything else?” said Cempa.

“That he’d track us down and kill us if we said anything. There’s nothing special about that, but he seemed so confident that he could do it.”

“Sixty Thrymas,” said Letholdus. “You could buy thirty thousand pints of ale for that much, or feed twenty five people for a whole year. It’s over eight percent of the entire income for this estate in an average year or-”

“I think we’ve got it Leth,” said Clæfre. “Whomever it is has a lot of money, really hates us, or both.”

“And has a personal grudge against Elewýs,” said Weard. “There’s only one person she’s picked a fight with since she left her home. He’s also the only one who could afford it and has a gangly lackey following him about.”

“Duke Mánfeld,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “I’m sending you all to the King. You can drag these misfits with you as proof, but first, will someone please carry me to Péton. I want this wretched arrow out of my leg!”